


Morning Tea

by Argonium



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Johnlock Roulette, Kissing, M/M, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Requited Love, Sex, Sherlock is a Tease, Starry-eyed John, Tea, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 12:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4349189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argonium/pseuds/Argonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock share an early-morning cup of tea in bed</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Tea

Sherlock holds the neck of his violin to his chest and peers out at the muted greys of another dawn. The memory of Schubert’s _Serenade_ still lingers in the air, dissipating like the voice of a friend who has just left the room. Below, a woman with long dark hair dashes across the street, her heels tapping on the pavement. She is hungover and distracted by her first (and last) infidelity. The clouds shift imperceptibly as silver light seeps down into the city.

He picks up a soft yellow cloth and cleans the instrument’s strings, removing rosin residue. Afterwards, he sets the cloth aside and tucks the violin into its velvet bed. Long fingers loosen the bow, secure it to the lid, and close and latch the case.

He stands for a moment, fingers at his lips as he looks at the clock on the mantle. Half five. His fingers taste of rosin. He very much wants a cigarette but settles for a deep breath instead. An unexplained shiver starts at the nape of his neck and travels down his body to his toes.

In the kitchen, he fills and flicks on the kettle, then washes his hands with the sandalwood soap that sits in the shell by the sink. John likes the scent.

He dries his hands on a threadbare towel, fills a glass with cold water and drinks. When done, he wipes droplets from his chin with his silken sleeve. The high cabinet is ajar. He reaches for one cup, then two and both saucers.

God only knows why John decided to buy two mismatched cups and saucers in Camden Passage. He made Sherlock wait for him. Bored! Bored and irritated. Now he appreciates the intricate pattern as he runs his thumb over the edge. The glaze is cool and smooth beneath his fingers. He considers the enamel, thinks about states of compression and expansion. Wonders how to determine the fit between glaze and substrate to prevent cracking in the kiln. As he rubs more vigorously, he pictures the cup lying in pieces upon the counter. Atoms and ions arrange themselves and twist in a beautiful repeating pattern just above the shards. The rush of the boiling water drops away with a click. He blinks twice. If he just let go, the ceramic would shatter.

Instead he removes the boiled water, pours just enough to warm the cups and reaches out for the tin of tea.

* * *

John can hear the sound of movement downstairs; creaking floors, the occasional clatter. He stretches his body into a long straight line, roughly rubs at his face, looks at the clock, then up at the ceiling. He didn’t sleep well and still feels tired but knows he should get up. He thinks about Sherlock. Wonders if the man has even slept his usual four or five hours... Wonders if he’ll join him upstairs. Sudden desire snakes its way around his body. He strains to listen but hears nothing, just the silence of an early Sunday morning.

He doesn’t realize he has dozed off until he hears the clinking of teacups on saucers. Sherlock closes the door with his foot and crosses the room, careful not to spill a drop. 

An ephemeral, giddy feeling winds its way from John’s sternum to his abdomen, though he keeps his eyes closed. Two cups of tea are placed on the bedside table.

There is a dip in his pillow, the fragrance of sandalwood, warm cotton, pine rosin. A hand to the right of his head, a knee beside his hip, a hand to his left and the gentle sweep of breath across his lips. In a moment, warm lips upon his own. 

Closer now, Sherlock’s scent bisects him; something proprietary that presses in at his throat and fills him with want. He opens his mouth into a smirk, which becomes a slow smile. As his lips part, the kiss deepens. In the quiet room, the sound is wet and luscious. With each kiss, the man above him draws life from his marrow and lights every cell in his body.

He forces one eye open and pulls back.

Sherlock looks smug, even with his eyes closed. When they open, John stares into that beautiful aventurine gaze.

“Good morning, John."

Sherlock's voice is rough from disuse.

“Is it?” John asks.

No answer. Instead, Sherlock drops his head to the space between John's neck and shoulder and breathes, as though taking in rare oxygen. When he has had his fill, he raises his mouth to John’s ear, “Oh yes,” he whispers.

As aroused as he is, it has been a long seven hours. John taps gently at Sherlock’s cheek. “Let me up then. Gotta use the loo.”

Sherlock pushes back, freeing John to throw back the quilt. As the door to the small toilet clicks shut, Sherlock lays back and listens to the traffic, which has just started to pick up.

John returns and climbs back into bed. He sits against the headboard and reaches to the bedside table. He hands Sherlock his cup of tea, then takes his own. The brew, which has cooled, is still dark and flavorful and he lets out a satisfied hum. 

Sherlock sits with a dancer’s posture, feet flat on the floor as he sips and gazes through a sliver of drapery at the brightening sky. Together, they drink in silence as the minutes pass.

Once finished, Sherlock stands and places his cup on the table. He removes his dressing gown and worn cotton shirt and tosses them to the floor. His attention has returned to John and he looks hungry. Mid-sip, John raises his eyebrows, swallows, and places his cup aside. The caffeine has awakened his mind, sharpened his focus. It is directed toward one person alone.

Sherlock leans down to deliver a kiss that is gentle and reverent. They join as though it is a relief. John breathes in and returns a kiss laden with devotion. Every dam gives way and his body floods with desire. He lets out a whimper, rubs at the sheets, then gives his hands their freedom and takes hold of Sherlock’s cool, slender shoulders. He strokes his arms, across his back and up into a tangle of unwashed hair, sweet with the smell of sweat, balsam and wood smoke. 

Kisses turn into tastes, sweet and salt, musk and tea. The room grows warm, strong with the scent of arousal. John grabs, arches, pulling his lover's hips against his own; rutting, needing. But while John’s breath has quickened, Sherlock’s has slowed. He is half-hard and meditative. He pulls away and sits back.

Eyes closed, he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, then down his flushed chest.

John tries to swallow as he watches, but his throat has gone dry.

When Sherlock opens his eyes, they are dark and depraved.

His long fingers pull at the twisted tapes of his loungewear. Though now loosened, he makes no move to undress. Instead, he begins to feel himself through the soft, thin fabric. Up and back, his pale hands push and pull at his hidden piece until the glistening, swollen tip begins to show above the waistband.

John’s mouth has become a desert. “Oh... _god,_ ” he breathes.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Touch yourself,” he says.

John does. He does not need to be asked twice and while he pulls at himself and attempts to scale back his need, Sherlock steps off the bed and removes the last of his clothing. John does the same from a sitting position.

The drawer of the side table is opened and closed. The mattress dips again and Sherlock rests a warm hand on John’s flushed chest, runs his lips softly over his left ear once, twice, then speaks. His voice is low, almost a whisper.

“First I am going to open myself up for you. Then I’m going to take you in my mouth until you’re leaking. Finally I will ride your beautiful cock until your ejaculate is running down the insides of my sore thighs. Do you agree with this course of action?”

In part, John wants to laugh out loud, unsure of how this man can be as cold and calculating as a machine one moment, and then recite the devil’s own poetry to him the next.

“Yes,” he manages, though simply finding the right word is difficult.

Sherlock stands again, dispenses a generous portion of clear gel onto his fingers, sets the tube aside and regards John with a fleeting, wicked smile. Then he leans forward just beside the closed curtain and places his left hand against the wall. As he widens his stance, John only grows harder. He drops his heavy head onto the pillow, feeling hot and drugged.

Sherlock traces small circles around his hole as lube drips down his hand and wrist. When he pushes back onto his fingers and curses into his forearm, John grabs his own arm just above the elbow. He squeezes as hard as he can, hoping pain will take the edge off. When Sherlock begins to rock methodically backward, John lets out a gasp and repeats his grip, this time using his nails. He knows the bruise will be bright and colorful tomorrow.

Sherlock’s eyes are glazed and glassy when he reaches down for his discarded shirt. He wipes his slicked fingers, before climbing atop John. He lowers his head to speak.

“Do you like watching me, John?” he asks.

“Uhh-huh,” words have long abandoned the doctor.

Sherlock strokes his knuckles down John’s abdomen to his hard prick. “Mmm, I see that you do.” He grabs and pulls gently, kisses the side of John’s mouth and continues in a path across his pectoral, gradually down to his hip.

Once there, he nudges at John’s erect cock, drags over it with his lips, and delivers a steady hot breath that causes John to moan. At this, Sherlock takes him in, sucks lightly at the head before swallowing him down completely. He bobs several times and pulls off with a sound that is wet and obscene. John can’t help wonder when and where he learned such tricks – a thought which has entered his mind more than once since their relationship crossed into the physical.

When John looks down, he is met with Sherlock’s most coquettish smile. His tongue darts out from his reddened lips, swirls over the tip, laps gently at the glans and delivers precise little nudges to the slit. What’s worse is that he is raising and lowering his hips, rutting against the quilt, dragging himself across the rumpled bedding, making soft little gasps. John thrusts his hands into Sherlock’s hair, growls and arches until Sherlock delivers a little push on his hip.

“Soon,” he breathes.

Every lick and drag of lips remains teasing and light. His cock is slick and straining and dripping with precome when he finally pulls himself up onto his elbows to glower and plead. He is rewarded for his patience with a searing kiss.

John tastes his own musk, reels from it, runs his left thumb over Sherlock's cheek and brushes droplets of sweat from his hairline and brow as they pant together. They are buzzing with urgency, with the shared charge of their desire.

When Sherlock sits back and takes him so slowly inside, John must close his eyes to keep from slipping over the edge. He can still hear Sherlock panting, making low sounds that are filled with intention.

The tightness and heat is exquisite. After Sherlock gradually sinks onto him, they both go still. John opens his eyes.

Sherlock’s normally pale skin is flushed. The muscles of his thighs and stomach are contracting and releasing. He rolls his head forward, breathing deeply, chin to his chest and after a moment he begins to move. Small nudges forward until his thighs begin to work, carrying his body up and down. Then he pushes forward again ever so slightly.

John feels entranced, like a conduit of pleasure. He has entered a strange world of muted euphoria as he watches the man above him move. In every careful rise and fall, Sherlock catalogs his body’s own reaction. His head rolls to one side, then the other as he gasps. He places a hand behind him and arches his torso, his shining, swollen cock resting flush against his pelvis. Again, his thighs and stomach tighten as he lifts and falls. He lets out a low hum as his body takes over, rising and falling, thighs working, pushing John's hard cock against his prostate. He moves in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. 

As Sherlock lifts his head, a bead of sweat trickles down from his temple to his chin. He bites his lower lip, breathing ragged in ecstasy.

“ _John, oh…_ ” his words are tense and breathy.

John cannot hold on but won’t let go...

“Yes, let me see you. Gorgeous creature. Let go, let me watch you let go." He begins to stroke Sherlock, whose hand joins John’s own. Neither man is truly conscious now as they move reflexively together, following the bright path toward release. The pace of their joined hands quickens and John grips more tightly, begins to tug and pull as Sherlock’s motions falter and his muscles contract. 

He is drawing John up and in, tighter and tighter. He looks upwards in both agony and abandon, squeezes his eyes closed. He slows and freezes before a shudder wracks his body and he lets out a guttural, anguished yell to the ceiling. He writhes and spasms, shooting ejaculate onto John’s chest and stomach. The fluid pulses over their shared grip and spills forth with their every trembling pull. 

“Yes fuck... Oh god." John is floating. He massages his palms into Sherlock’s thighs as he pushes up again, again into his still clenched body. Wetness drips down his ribs and abdomen.

Sherlock has begun to move despite his sensitive state, he rocks forward, his own hands placed firmly over John’s as he murmurs words of encouragement. John’s groan starts out a low rumble but then grows loud enough to echo in the room. John fills him completely, looking stunned, hypnotized, his breathing is deep and broken. He has come to pieces. Every part of his body feels at peace.

Sherlock raises his head and smiles drowsily, then removes himself and grabs his now soiled shirt.

After wiping them down, he collapses at John's side with a hum and a sigh. John turns to plant a kiss at the corner of one closed eye, then at the top of a cheekbone.

They share deep, calm and steady breaths. John is buzzing with contentment and his voice is low and sweet as he turns to Sherlock. "Thanks for the tea," he says.

There is no answer. Sherlock has fallen asleep.


End file.
